


Aftermath

by hinataisnothim (afwrit)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls
Genre: Contemplation, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27557638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afwrit/pseuds/hinataisnothim
Summary: It is the culmination of their lives in Towa as Kamukura contemplates the first steps forward.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 3
Kudos: 99
Collections: Mixed_Fics





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meshizuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meshizuru/gifts).



It is eerie when Towa city finally settles into quiet.

Eerie to all but one.

It is the resignation that has filled all of them—despair cannot perpetually sustain itself. Unfettered destruction was always an impossibility. That is the ultimate fallacy of Enoshima’s wicked desires, one she knew well about even as she steered them towards her goal. It was enough of an abject fact to pique his interest to begin with. 

As people en mass grow tired of outrage and chaos, they settle. More Monokumas are destroyed than built, followers of the cult of despair discard their masks and take respite. They knew, of course (because they always know  _ they know _ it is as simple and true a statement as saying  _ they are _ ) that eventually there will be no buildings left to topple, no fields left to raze, no more water to pollute, and no more hope to corrupt. Like yeast, the world has consumed every crumb of hope feeding the beast of despair. Now it starves.

It happened both quicker and slower than they expected and was growing ever-more boring by the millisecond. Second. Half-minute. Minute. 

_ Hour. _

Kamukura sits in an abandoned apartment and listens to the nothing. If he were unable to calculate the time to the nearest approximate thousandth second, he might have lost track of it.

The 78th Class of Hope’s Peak’s killing game had concluded. Enoshima Junko is dead, but her influence still spreads like spores of a rotting fungus. The Tragedy (the second, Kamukura knows the first is long forgotten) is beginning to wane, and the Warriors of Hope are no more. The Future Foundation closes in as the action ends and the curtain falls, the Remnants of Despair are beginning to unravel. This is it. Events they had long theorized were materializing and they couldn’t care less.

It was the minute sensations that kept him from the madness of over-analyzing. The slow drip of water from the roof, lingering effects of rain long past that rolled down the cracked wall. The gentle touch of the breeze on their cheek as they stare out the window, tugging their hair into ribbons behind their face. The groan of the failing concrete is too low for natural hearing (it will not fall for another thirty-one days, seven hours, five minutes, and thirty six—five seconds) but they are graced with the hearing of the Ultimate Musician. 

Perhaps cursed is more precise.

Then there is the slow rise and fall of his chest—the slow beat of their heart—accompanied by a solitary sound: the scrape of a chain against the wrecked floor.

The Servant. Komaeda Nagito. Ironic the name considering he is a horrible excuse for a Servant, inadequate in anything they could ask. They could simply do better. Be better.

They have yet to indulge the question of why they have let him stay so close for so long.

He sits behind them, and hesitates. They permit it through inaction. He lets out a breath he was holding. 

Komaeda Nagito is the second closest to interesting they have ever encountered. He will always be second to Enoshima, no matter what he attests, and the despair this fact would cause him is befitting of a third Tragedy. He is a complex series of irony and oxymoron, an unassuming paradox. He lives by his luck and his luck alone, his body wracked with disease and delusion. His lust for hope only condemns him further and further. 

Komaeda reaches out to touch their hair. 

Izuru tenses.

He would not hurt them, this is fact. They know he loves them with the devotion of a zealot. He would immolate if they were so inclined that day, would cut his arms to spill blood in their name, and worship them every night. In a heretical sense, but it is worship all the same. If there was an altar he could sacrifice himself at for them, he would, tying himself down with degrading mumbles and hopeful promises (even though sometimes they prefer to tie him).

And they lead him to such a fate.

Their existence as this, in this state, is temporary. The sacrificial altar lies on an island far from where they sit, a prison of glowing screens and computer code. Komaeda trots along with him, a willing pet. They muse briefly that his hair does reflect the nature of wool. They recall dragging him by it across the floor, envisioning the texture.

Yes, it is a fair comparison.

All of this flits by in mere moments. Their shoulders drop.

Komaeda is trustworthy. He would not dare hurt them, would not pull their hair as Enoshima would. This is fair. An exchange of sorts, awkward and impromptu it may be.

“Kamukura-sama?”

Ah. He had noticed.

“Yes.” Acknowledgement. Nothing more.

“Even though it’s a job unfitting for me, the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth, may I be allowed the privilege of brushing out your hair?”

Brushing their hair. Kamukura’s hair was one of the few possessions they protected. It couldn’t be called care or concern, but it was something of note. Something in their absolute control that they preferred left untouched. To do so was a permission a single individual held, the pinnacle of their warped intimacy.

They nodded.

His joy was so brilliant Kamukura couldn’t let it go unremarked. His face, pallid and clammy, lit up with pink tinge.

They felt something strange grow over their own face.

“You look. . . hopeful.”

“Any hope I have pales in comparison to you, Kamukura-sama!” His hands (hand, the other  _ thing _ still cloaked in that mitten) were clasped in awe. He was  _ glowing _ .

Then as soon as the emotion stirred within them, it was gone.

They sighed, then shrugged.

He quickly grasped their hair again, pulling the length into his lap. It is so dark it appears black, but as the sun rises the brown undertones begin to shine. His fingers work it into sections, then smooth the strands along with a brush. Komaeda hums into the work, taking great care to dissolve any tricky tangles (if any were there at all, Kamukura’s hair is eternally immaculately maintained, and Komaeda sees that as enough proof they are a god for a lifetime), and his five fingers slip to their scalp. There, he massages with light tenderness so raw he feels he may break. Even if he did, though, it would not matter.

After all, he lives to serve. 

Kamukura Izuru does not care about the experience. It is a pointless, meaningless gesture that will go unnoted and unrequited. Still, the sensation is not unpleasant. Sensation is such an odd, expected thing that manages to surprise him upon initial contact.

Kamukura closes their eyes and predicts. Their predictions span from half an hour forward when the foot traffic before them would peak to the distant future when all traces of despair are hidden behind the picturesque lies of the Future Foundation. And for once, Kamukura does not notice they are leaning back into Komaeda’s touch. The moments are more bearable. Repetitive motion grounds them and frees them.

They have decided on how to respond.

They take his hand, his real material hand, and brush their lips against his fingertips. Komaeda looks as if he has transcended to elysium.

Kamukura decides that kisses are an entertaining motion.

**Author's Note:**

> i love you very much kota, i *hope* this brightens your day and you enjoy it! I know this age may seem difficult, but there are bright futures ahead for you, i just know it!
> 
> happy birthday <3


End file.
